


And Called It Macaroni

by ossapher



Series: The Macaroniverse -- Lams Modern AU [11]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Henry Laurens is a terrible parent, Modern AU, References to Past Injury, emotionally-abusive parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The modern AU you never asked for. Contains EMT John Laurens making macaroni and cheese for his roommate, law student Alexander Hamilton. Domestic fluff with a dash of curtainfic and a sprinkle of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Called It Macaroni

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! In order for this to make sense, you should probably read [this list of modern-AU John Laurens headcanons](http://philly-osopher.tumblr.com/post/132517268729/i-started-writing-modern-au-john-laurens) that I made first. This fic expands on those. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take the day off?” Alex asks, for what must be the fifteenth time, as he searches the apartment for his other dress shoe.

It’s Day Six since John took a bullet to the shoulder, a Monday, which means Alex has classes and internships all day. He’s already missed half a week for this; he’s trying not to show it, but John knows he’s stressed. “I’m sure. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“No using the arm.”

“No using the arm.” It’s in a sling, anyway, and every time he tries to move it pain shoots all the way down to his fingertips—not that he’s telling Alex that. He’s got his first PT appointment tomorrow, anyway.

“Just relax and take it easy. Netflix all day.”

“I’ve always wanted to watch _Gilmore Girls_.”

Alex narrows his eyes. “That better not be sarcasm. _Gilmore Girls_ is terrific. And if you need anything, call me and I’ll come straight home.”

John answers that with a mocking Cub Scout salute. “You’re gonna miss your bus if you don’t run. Oh, and your other shoe’s behind the bathroom door.”

Alex dives into the bathroom and reappears, hopping on one foot until he stomps the shoe on.

“My dad would kill you for that.”

Alex nearly overbalances, saved only by the wall. “What about your dad?”

“If he saw you treat a nice shoe like that. He would explode.”

“I thought your family was rich?”

“Yeah, but Dad’s old money. No mistreating your possessions. Just, you know, people who aren’t as rich as you. Gotta show class.”

“No wonder you never got along,” Alex says with a grin. “You’re like, the least classy person I know.”

“And you have a bus to catch.”

“Netflix!” Alex calls over his shoulder, halfway out the door.

“Bus!”

“And call me if you—”

“ _Bus_!”

* * *

With Alex gone the apartment is quiet. John doesn’t feel like Netflix right away—can’t quite settle down to anything. He gets a strange impulse to call Marta and immediately decides against it. What would he say, anyway? _Hey, hon, I know we haven’t talked in years, but I got shot the other day! But it’s cool, I’m fine. Except, you know, I almost bled out, and now my arm’s in a sling, and I’m barely able to twitch my fingers. Anyway, how’s our daughter? What is she, like six years old? My, my, my, how time flies!_

…yeah. He’s not making that phone call. Just the thought of Marta makes his guts twist. She doesn’t know he was shot in the first place, so from her perspective, it would probably be more worrying for him to call now than not at all.

His stomach grumbles, so he goes into the kitchen. Bowl and spoon are pretty simple, but pouring cereal out of a box is surprisingly challenging. The plastic bag inside the box slides out and he spills Cheerios all over the floor. Then he can’t work broom and dustpan at the same time, so he ends up picking up all the spilled Cheerios and throwing them in the trash one by one. Then he can’t get the milk carton open. He almost gives up then, because Cheerios without milk are just not fucking worth it, but something in him refuses. He’s a grown-ass fucking adult and he’s not about to let a milk carton beat him just because he only has one working arm. He sits down, holds the milk carton between his thighs, and pries open the thin cardboard with a fork. Cheerios with milk taste like victory.

When he’s done with breakfast he notices dishes are piling up in the sink. Makes sense—he only got home from the hospital a couple days ago, and Alex has basically been 100% focused on taking care of him since then. Simple household things sorta fell by the wayside. But that can change. He’s feeling good, he’s got the whole day with no Alex to fret over him and tell him not to exert himself. Sure, Alex will probably be mad when he gets home—seeing as John’s contravening his direct order to lay around being useless all day. But what does Alex know? John’s the EMT.

Rinsing all the dishes is complicated, but not impossible, with a single arm. John leaves a couple of the crustier items to soak and loads up the dishwasher, humming softly to himself as he works, feeling his sense of normalcy returning. Sure, it may take longer, but he can still do a lot of the stuff he could do before. It’s more of a relief than he’d anticipated—and sure, maybe Alex doing everything made sense at first, but now that John’s better that can end. First, it’s not fair to Alex to have all the chores on top of law school, and second, John needs to be able to contribute or he’s going to go insane. Probably a topic he should bring up with Alex when he gets back.

John feels an absurd rush of satisfaction as the dishwasher rumbles to life. Hm, what else needs doing? Probably laundry. But for laundry he needs to go out in public, which requires not walking around in boxers and an old ratty t-shirt he’s been wearing for the past three days.

Hm. He can’t do much about the shirt without messing with the sling, and it still really hurts to disturb his arm in any way. But jeans, jeans he can do. He finds an old loose-fitting pair in the pile on the bedroom floor (definitely time for laundry) and pulls it on. So now just socks—sneakers—he can’t tie the laces, so fuck the sneakers, fuck the socks—flip-flops. It’s November. Fuck it, he’ll live dangerously today. It’s only a block to the laundromat anyway.

Keys, wallet, and quarters in his pockets, detergent and clothes in a hamper, and he’s out the door. D.C. winter is pretty brisk in flip-flops and a t-shirt, and he gets a couple strange looks, but he doesn’t care. He’s alive and he’s doing laundry and that’s really all he wants out of today. Impressing the good people of D.C. with his fashion choices and personal grooming? Not on his to-do list.

Waiting for the laundry to finish he wanders over to the library and picks up a book or two for himself. After dropping them off at the apartment he’s feeling so good, he thinks maybe he should make a phone call after all. Not to Marta—bad idea, really bad idea—but to his sister, Mary. Before he can chicken out he sends her a text. He and Mary aren’t actually _estranged-_ estranged, per se, but she’s sixteen and still lives with their dad, who monitors her social life close enough that making contact is risky. But Mary deserves to know what’s going on his life. He doesn’t want to cut her out entirely just because Dad’s a raging asshole.

**okay if we talk some time? nothing urgent, just an update and wanted to say hi**

**kinda hard to explain over text**

**/ texting is hard, i’ll explain**

Instead of the expected old man joke, there’s an immediate reply.

_jack OHMIGOD ARE YOU OKAY?!?!?_

John frowns. He hasn’t authorized the hospital to talk about his case with anyone, and they kept his name out of the media, so Mary has no specific reason to be worried about him, right? Maybe she’s just reacting to the fact that he hasn’t made contact in a couple months. He laboriously spells out his reply:

**sorry i’m a shitty brother. i should keep in touch better**

**aren’t you in school**

_lunch_

_jack what the fuck_

_are you seriously pretending you weren’t shot last week?_

John almost drops his phone.

**IM FINE**

**FINE**

_so you WERENT SHOT?_

**no i was**

**im fine**

A quarter-second later his phone rings. “Mary, I—”

A strangled sob comes from the other end of the line. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, kiddo.” Mary hates being called kiddo; therefore, John, as her older brother, calls her kiddo every chance he gets. It’s their little (well, his little) joke, and he hopes she’ll take it as a sign that all is well.

“You keep saying that,” Mary croaks. “What does _fine_ mean? Dad said they were moving you into _surgery_ when he left and—”

“Wait. I’m sorry. Did you just say _Dad_ was there?”

“Yeah, didn’t you see him?

"I was… distracted,” John euphemizes. Distracted, unconscious: basically the same thing, right? Time to change the subject. “Why did Dad leave?”

“Uh, because some crazy lawyer barged in and threatened to s-sue him and sue the hospital and get a restraining order, and he said that—that Dad shouldn’t contact you again, unless you gave him permission, and until then we couldn’t talk to you and I’ve been _so worried_ —”

“Fuck! Mary, I promise, if I’d known—fuck! Mary, I’m so sorry, I had no idea Dad had stopped by, I thought you didn’t know anything—”

“So you weren’t going to tell me at all?”

“That’s what I was texting you for.” John’s mind races. Crazy lawyer—that can only be Alex. He’s never told Alex he has a sister, has he? “Mary, I’m so sorry. My friend only knows that Dad and me really don’t get along— I had no idea Dad was there and had told you I’d been hurt, and my friend had no idea he needed to tell you I was better. I promise, I wasn’t trying to cut you out of the loop. My plan was to tell you what happened today.”

Mary falls silent. After a few seconds, John hears the sound of a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Okay. Maybe let’s just pretend that everything went according to your plan. What exactly were you going to tell me?”

John takes a deep breath of his own. “Late last Tuesday night I was out on a call with the ambulance for the victim of a gang shooting. Some asshole shot me in the shoulder and I had to have surgery. Now I’m back in my apartment and all the doctors say I’m doing really well.”

“What was the surgery for?”

John winces. Mary’s honing in on what he thinks of as the scary part, the part he most wants to shield her from. “Well, the bullet hit—barely hit, just a little bit—a blood vessel, and they had to patch it up in a hurry, and afterwards they had to give me some extra blood from other people to help me out.”

“I’m not four, Jack. I know what arteries are.” Mary sounds very cold. "Are you able to use the arm?”

“Not right now. Later? Maybe. Everything’s all swollen still, so they can’t be sure, but they think the nerve’s damaged. I can sort of twitch my fingers, I guess? And my hand’s pins and needles sometimes. I start physical therapy tomorrow.” John sighs. “That adult enough for ya?”

“Better than pretending everything’s okay when it’s not.” A pause. “Do you… do you need help with anything? I could come help out.”

John feels a rush of affection for his baby sister, all grown up and responsible now and adorably protective of him. “Naw, I’m fine here. Got a crazy lawyer to take care of me.”

“The one who screamed at Dad?”

“That’s the one.”

“Ha. Sounds like a keeper.” A school bell rings on the other end; before John can correct Mary’s assumption, she says, “Hey, I gotta go. Uh, are you okay with me telling Dad? I mean, that you’re okay? He's—he’s really worried about you.”

A lump forms in John’s throat. God, family is complicated. “Uh, sure. Anything we talked about today—yeah. That’s fine. Love you, kiddo.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Mary says, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “Love you too, Jack.” She hangs up.

John sighs and rubs his eyes. Now would be a perfect occasion to flop dramatically onto the bed, but he doesn’t want to jar his arm, so instead, he gently lowers himself down and pulls a comforter over himself.

If Dad was really at the hospital before John was even in surgery, that means he made it there fast—faster than Alex, even, who had been notified within minutes of John being shot. Their apartment, where Alex had come from, is pretty far away from the hospital, but that still meant that Henry Laurens had heard about John’s injury almost instantaneously. How? Well, he knew John worked as an EMT from one of their earlier, spectacularly-failed attempts at reconciliation. Maybe he’d paid someone at the hospital to keep tabs on John. That was certainly his style…  

It also explains why Alex threatened to sue; he probably didn’t even have to painstakingly reason it out like John—probably made one of those scary intuitive leaps that makes him seem half-clairvoyant sometimes. Dad was probably still wondering what hit him. Disclosure of patient information without patient permission is a crime: God knows John did enough training workshops on HIPAA for his EMT certification. And if Dad’s backed off for real—John checks his phone again, just in case, but there are no new messages or calls from him—it’s probably because he really has done something illegal.

“Go Alex,” John whispers, pumping his fist. Still, part of him feels a twinge of regret that his dad’s worried. The man’s presence never fails to fuck up John’s entire sense of self-worth and self-respect, but John doesn’t hate him or want him to be sad.

And fuck, Mary! John should have called her earlier. Knowing that she’s been spending the last six days worried out of her mind about him makes him feel sick with guilt. Why hadn’t she contacted him?

 _Because Dad probably told her not to, or he’d get sued,_ says the part of him that always thinks the worst of people. Unfortunately, this is the part of him that is best-equipped to figure out what his dad’s up to. Using guilt about Mary to manipulate John: it’s a move Henry’s employed before, using her as emotional trap to weasel his way back into John’s life.

And now John’s fallen for it _again_ , because he’s just given Mary permission to tell Dad everything he told her about his arm! And now Dad will probably contact him, offer to help him find a good physical therapist, to cover all the hospital bills, hell, maybe even help out with rent, at the low, low cost of being able to disapprove and insult everything John has worked so hard to build for himself.

He doesn’t regret it, though. Better for Mary to know that he’s fine—he can deal with Dad. It’ll be a bitch and a half, but he’s got years of practice at this particular emotional death-tango.

He must drift off at some point, because when he wakes up his phone is ringing. He checks the number before answering, because God knows he’s not going to deal with his dad half-asleep.

It’s Alex. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Hi, John—just checking in. You weren’t answering my texts.” Alex is trying to keep the worry out of his voice and totally failing.

John glances at his screen: eight unread messages, and it’s almost four in the afternoon. “Shit, I was asleep. Sorry to worry you.” Better not ask about his dad just yet; that’s a conversation that needs to happen in person.  

“Aah, no, I’m sorry. I should have guessed. Honestly I figured that was what it was, but then I was like _what if he’s in trouble_ and _what if he’s sick_ and I know it’s paranoid and you were totally fine this morning but I’m just, I guess I’m just still a little uh, overanxious about—”

“Hey, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. I probably shouldn’t sleep the day away anyway.”

“No, dude, totally sleep the day away if that’s what you gotta do! Oh, and I’ll probably be home around seven instead of six—Washington wants to meet with me.”

“Washington…he teaches Constitutional Law, right?” John furrows his brow, trying to think why Washington would need to talk to Alex so urgently. “Oh, shit! You had that presentation you were supposed to give Wednesday morning! The one that was worth like half your grade! You’d been working on it for weeks—God, how did I forget? I’m such an asshole!”

“I imagine you forgot because Wednesday morning you were high on hospital heroin while the doctors argued about whether or not they could save your arm,” Alex deadpans. “Washington’ll let me make it up somehow. Don’t worry. He loves me.”

John feels a pang of some unidentifiable emotion, right under his heart. “God, Alex, you’re just… I just…” His throat’s closing up over the words—not that he knows what words those would be, if he could even say them.

“Hey, hey, are you okay? Do you want me to come home? I can skip recitation—I can be there in half an hour—”

“No. No. Don’t come home. I’m fine,” John says firmly. “I’ve got _Gilmore Girls_.” They say their goodbyes; Alex has to go.

God, what did he do to deserve someone like Alex as a friend? It must have been something in a previous life, something that earned him seriously good karma. Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of apologizing to him about his dad. Either way, now that he’s been refreshed by a three-hour nap the morning’s determination to accomplish something is returning to him.

Also returning: the memory that he left their clothes in the dryer at the laundromat hours ago. “Shit!”

Luckily nobody’s stolen their clothes, but they’ve lost their warm dryer feel by the time he hauls them one-handed back to the apartment. He dumps everything on the bed and tries to neatly hang the nicest of Alex’s dress shirts and slacks, but they’re pretty rumpled already. Alex will probably iron them, because he’s meticulous like that. Damn. John had been trying to do something nice, and he’d fucked it up. “You’re a failure as a housewife, Laurens,” he says to himself.

And just like that, he has an idea. A way to start thanking Alex for being there for him every minute of this last nightmarish week. He does a quick Google search, then strides into the kitchen.

“Alex, I"—John flings open the cupboard—"am gonna make you"—he seizes a box of seashell pasta—"the best"—he finds a big boiling pot and a saucepan—"goddamn"—he sets the saucepan aside, turns on the water, and fills the pot from the tap—"mac ‘n cheese that you ever"—he realizes that he can’t lift the full pot of water one-handed—"fuck.”

By pouring out half the water in the pot he gets it light enough to lift, and adds the rest by filling a cup with water and dumping it in a couple times. Pleased with his ingenuity, he turns the stove on.

He periodically checks the recipe on his phone as he works. This is the most complicated mac 'n cheese he’s ever made, with a whole egg in the sauce and yellow onion and mustard and bacon bits and all sorts of other ingredients you don’t normally associate with the standard Kraft version. “Thank you, Alex,” he sings, absentmindedly, as he works. No particular tune, just a message he can better articulate with actions (mac 'n cheesy actions, that is) than with words. “Thank you, Alex, you’re the best, you’re so great, thank you so much for beeeeing here…”

An hour and a half later, when Alex gets home, John is there to greet him at the door with a barely-suppressed grin on his face.  

“Alex, thank God, I thought you wouldn’t get here fast enough. I need you to take something out of the oven.”

Alex sniffs the air. “You…cooked something? One-handed?”

“Yeah,” John says, trying not to look too pleased with himself. “The egg was tricky, but I cleaned it up.”

Alex takes a couple potholders and opens the oven door. His mouth falls open. “John, are these panko crumbs? Do we even _have_ panko crumbs?”

John shrugs. “We do now.”

Alex carefully removes the pan from the oven and places it on the stovetop. “Holy shit, this is the most beautiful mac 'n cheese I’ve ever seen. I wanna shove my face in it.”

“Maybe wait 'til it cools a little more first?” John suggests. He’d been a little worried about how over-the-top the recipe was, but it smells like Nirvana. “It’s, like, a thank-you meal?”

Alex nods, face carefully blank. John’s starting to feel a little uneasy–he doesn’t like it?–when Alex pronounces, “I don’t know, man. It’s a little… _cheesy_.”

“I walked right into that,” John groans, running a hand down his face. His stomach grumbles. “How’d your meeting with Washington go?”

“Really great, actually!” says Alex, with a brilliant smile. “I’m just going to give the presentation to him one-on-one next week, after I’ve had some time to prep. He didn’t even want to talk about that, though. He runs this summer program for _disadvantaged yoothes_ and he thought that I, as a former _disadvantaged yoothe_ , would be a good mentor for them.”

“Alex Hamilton, professional role model for the yoothes,” John says, impersonating Alex’s impersonation of Washington. “Stranger things have happened.” He takes a plate and scoops out a generous serving of steaming macaroni, melted cheese stringing out behind the spoon. “Here you go.”

Alex laughs, taking the plate. “You’d better give yourself at least that much, man.”

“Oh, I figured we’d finish this all tonight,” John says, taking a heaping helping for himself. “I mean, the recipe only serves twelve.”

Alex laughs, and for a moment he’s just…looking at John. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say he’s recognizing his own face from earlier that day, his _God, what awesome thing did I do to deserve this person?_ look. But that seems like a weird look to give someone for macaroni, even if it first-class thank-you macaroni. John clears his throat, glancing away, and Alex drops his eyes.

“I, uh, meant to ask you something.” They sit down at the table and start to tuck in. John takes a bite. It’s even better than he hoped it would be: sharply flavorful and hot, comfort food at its finest.

“Ask away,” says Alex, his voice uncertain.

“At the hospital, that night—my dad showed up?”

Alex instantly looks guilty. “Shit, John. I know you want no part of him in your life, so I just, uh, ran him off. I was gonna tell you soon, I promise, I just—I just wanted to wait until you were feeling a little better before I dropped that particular bomb.”

John nods. He’s got to tread carefully here, because he’s angry with his dad, and angry at himself, and he doesn’t want any of that extra emotion to bleed into his words to Alex. “I understand, and I’m glad you got rid of him then. I can’t even imagine how difficult it would have been for me if he’d been around at the hospital.”

“Yeah. Well—like I said. I knew you don’t get along like, at all.”

“Did he seem… how did he seem?”

Alex ponders the question before answering. “Understand, I was in kind of a state at that point. Uh, he kept demanding to see you and to talk to your doctors. Very, uh, commanding. But also… scared.” They both eat their macaroni in silence. John thinks he’s done, but after a minute or two Alex continues, “I don’t really know your history, or what he’s done, but… it seemed to me like he loves you.”

There’s a faint wistfulness in Alex’s face, the same look he always gets when they talk about John’s relationship with his dad. John doesn’t know much about Alex’s relationship with his dad, but it seems like Alex really looked up to the guy even after he walked out. Then again, maybe it's easier to reconcile with someone after they're dead and can't fuck with you anymore. 

“I may talk to him in the next week or so, to let him know I’m better,” John says, and pretends not to see Alex’s face light up. Maybe Alex wishes he had a dad who cared as much as John’s. The problem is, John’s dad doesn’t really care about _John_ all that much. He cares about John’s accomplishments, about controlling and shaping his son into some kind of perfect reflection of himself. John doesn’t know if Alex fully understands that—if he even _can_ fully understand it, having grown up so starved of family attention of any kind. “It must have been hard for you,” he says, reaching across the table and laying his hand on Alex’s arm. “Having to confront him, I mean, just out of the blue like that. Thank you for doing that for me.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t really at my best. I kind of… screamed incoherently about patient privacy laws for several minutes straight.” Alex sniffs, his voice growing wobbly. “I was really worried about you, John. I was so scared, all this week, I just"—he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand—"fuck, John, once I start crying I’m not gonna stop, I’m sorry—”

John blinks in astonishment, a forkful of macaroni abandoned halfway to his face. Alex has been astonishingly steady for the last week: a soothing voice in the hospital when John was in pain and drugged out of his mind on painkillers, a polite negotiator on the phone with insurance companies, a cheerful presence to brighten the days of the nurses and staff. It’s been a bit of a revelation for John, really, that his high-energy, fast-talking, cloud-cuckoolander of a roommate could transform at the drop of a hat into some kind of miraculous professional sick-person-helper. And now another revelation, that under that scarily-efficient façade was the same Alex he’s always known: an Alex who was frightened for him, who was holding it together only until it was safe to fall apart.

Belatedly he realizes he should do something, that Alex is half-curled-in on himself with tears dripping silently down his face. He moves his good hand to Alex’s shoulder. “Hey, man, stand up.”

Alex makes another angry swipe at his eyes and stands. “Why—”

John draws him in for a hug. At first Alex doesn’t understand, and even when he does he’s hesitant, scared of jostling John’s bad arm. An awkward side-hug is the result. But eventually Alex buries his face against John’s good shoulder, and John rests his cheek on Alex’s hair. “Thank you,” John says. “You’ve been—God, you’ve been incredible this past week. Well, the whole time I’ve known you, really, but this week just blew everything else out of the water in terms of shittiness, and you just… you just _handled_ it, man.”

They’ve been hugging for at least ten seconds longer than the Bro Code-Approved Bro Hug, but neither of them moves to break away. “Doesn’t _feel_ like I’m handling it.” Alex’s voice comes muffled slightly by John’s shirt. “Feels like I’m freaking out. How are you so _calm_? You’re the one who got shot!”

“I’m calm because you took on all the stressful stuff for me!” John says. “You’re the one who dealt with literally everything except the actual bullet. All I have to do is get better, which is something my body’s doing for me anyway, no thought required. Literally I just lay around all day and my task is accomplished. Meanwhile you—you schedule appointments, you ask the doctors questions, you keep track of what they say and all the meds they prescribe and all the X-rays and scans and specialists, you remember the nurses’ names and their kids’ names and what they like for lunch, you sweet-talk insurance into paying for things, and you do that all when you have a million other, better, law-school things you could be doing. I’m starting to think you’re an actual superhero.”

“John, you literally almost died trying to save someone else’s life. I think that by definition makes you the hero.”

“Hey, nobody said this apartment has to have a one-hero limit,” says John, which makes Alex laugh. They break apart, and Alex looks up for him, eyes full of tears and affection in about equal measure. “Now, I made this mac 'n cheese especially for you, and you’re going to eat it.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” says Alex, with a decent approximation of the Cub Scout salute, and returns to his plate.  


End file.
